This Is Where We Love
I cannot see you anymore and I'm looking through a telescope. You are calling me, but the phone keeps disconnecting.
By Ari Eastman
This is where we love.
Your hands stretch across county lines,
My mouth kisses yours like sugarplum candies.
We are nothing
and everything,
and I want to scream to the world how much you taste like the best day.
We hold each other with lips and touch
and an overwhelming fear of this all leaving.
That the best day is not permanent,
That we will have to say goodnight and it could all be done.
You say, “The moon is a giant chunk of cheese and I’d take a bite with you.”
I ask what kind
and you say cheddar.
The sky is as pink and blue as every baby blanket in every hospital known in every state.
You joke about us having kids,
and my belly aches
because I want it too.
We speak in a language of fireworks,
blue,
pink,
purple.
I wonder if people can see
or if we travel at a speed much too fast,
much too unbelievable.
We are not visible to the human eye,
Spinning in this cosmic cycle together.
This is where we love.
I am laughing and crying
and our love spills out with such ease.
It escapes through open doors,
the gap in between my front teeth,
the spaces between our fingers when we unlatch,
spinning madly,
“This is where I love you,”
I point to your chest,
your feet,
your broad shoulders.
“This is where I love you,”
You point to my chubby cheeks,
the nape of my neck,
the curve of my spine.
We are scared and in love and I’m running away.
You’re running too.
We are running from a world and wishing it could be enough to stay.
I wish we could stay.
I cannot see you anymore and I’m looking through a telescope.
You are calling me, but the phone keeps disconnecting.
I am crying and laughing,
and our love is still spilling out.
It’s in the mouths of everyone I try to kiss.
Everyone you try to kiss.
We say goodnight and you tell me it never stopped.
This is where we love,
and though it’s been months,
you still taste like my favorite day.